


Mortal sickness does not touch us

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 09:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19999858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Germania is hurt, but too proud to ask for help. Rome is thrust into the unfamiliar role of protector and has an unexpected epiphany.





	Mortal sickness does not touch us

**Author's Note:**

> HRE was described as strong looking, but having a weak constitution. I attributed that to the fact, this his country was not a country but a collection of several states ranging from northern Italy to Denmark. They fought and those fights was essentially HRE attacking himself, looking to the outside like a sickness. (a bit like an immune system fighting itself)  
> And I imagine that his ancestor Germania, also being a collection of tribes, would have had the same problem.

He was dreaming. Of his forests, endless seas of trees in every shade of green imaginable; of caves, clear springs and grassy hills. He was standing in a forest he had been in as a child, running his hand over the bark of a nearby tree. The trees seemed to be bigger; somehow. 

He had come to realize that of course everything in his memory had only seemed larger – when he'd been a child, everything used to loom over him. Now that he was grown, everything was smaller. . But it seemed that this part of the forest had grown with him, and surpassed him along the way. He felt small. 

There was a sound behind him, footsteps. Rapidly, he fell into a defensive stance and reached for his knife. But it wasn't there. Nor was his sword or indeed his armor. He was standing in just his shirt and breeches, no means of defense on his body. The steps were getting closer and he felt terrified. It was a curious feeling and he examined it for a second; it felt alien to him, not like his fear, but someone else's. Then he grew too panicked to think and just ran. His naked feet ran over roots and moss, his legs getting scratched by thorns and branches. Someone grabbed his shirt, but no one was there, except the trees. Faster! His heart pounded in his chest, his feet seemed to thunder on the soft ground. But the steps never faltered, never quieted down, they were still behind him, and gaining ground. Was this how prey felt? When one was the hunted and not the hunter? 

His limbs and lungs burned with exhaustion, but he couldn't slown down, he wasn't safe. More and more it felt like the forest tried to stop him, threw roots in his way, tried to grip him with branches and drag him back. No matter how fast he ran, he didn't seem to go anywhere.

Suddenly there was a hand in his hair, brutally bringing him to a stop and bringing him to his knees. He tried to fight, but his assailant wore armor and had a knife. His eyes grew wide. The attacker had his knife. Wore his armor. He looked up and saw his own face, eyes filled with a bloodlust he had never seen. “Is this how they see me, on the battlefield?“, he thought, "they are right to fear me.“ He lunged for his attacker, for himself, but was knocked down to the ground. Without mercy, his enemy raised his sword – Germania's own sword – and impaled him. 

Germania woke up. He was drenched in sweat, he panted and his hands flew to his abdomen, where he had been stabbed in his dream. They didn't come away with blood on them, but he felt the pain nevertheless. it washed over him like a hungry wave, crushing him underneath. He curled himself into a ball, gasping for air. Not again, he pleaded. Not here. 

The sun was high in the sky. Rome stretched lazily. He was entirely too comfortable on his pillows. His room looked like after a drunken orgy. Considering that he'd had a drunken orgy the night before, it felt incredible, if a bit sticky. Something was nagging him in the back of his mind though. As if he had forgotten something. Any fellow orgy participants? Leaking wine barrel? Something on fire? No, everything seemed normal. 

He sat up with a start! He was too comfortable! It was noon, past the time Germania had kicked him out of bed and dragged him to where he was supposed to be. Training, supervising this, meeting with his boss, overseeing that. Germania had never hidden the fact that the Roman lifestyle - or just his lifestyle - was not his, no matter how often Rome had tried to convince him with this or that. Where was Germania? He was the puncutual, reliable one, while Rome was, well, Rome. Germania was serious, Rome was fun, Germania was strict, Rome was fun. Had he thought fun twice? Anyway, if Germania was late, something big must have come up. And how inconsiderate of him not to fetch Rome when something big was happening!

"My friend!" someone bellowed and strode into his room. It was Rome. Of course it was Rome, who else would come to him willingly? Servants only came when ordered and everyone was content to stay away, just as he liked it. But Rome did as he pleased and had no regards for personal space or Germania's wishes. Germania just registered it, but was too weak to react, besides trying to burrow deeper into his blankets. He felt the heat of the sun, so it must have been day already. Hours must have passed. 

There was a lump on the bed. A man-shaped lump. Had Germania overslept? Impossible! Maybe something was wrong? Rome knelt down by the head and pulled off the blanket. Germania was there, looking miserable and pained. He was curled into a tight ball, one hand clutching his abdomen, the other thrown over his eyes to block out the light. Was he hurt? It was a strange sight, to see his friend defenseless. Something stirred inside Rome. Worry. He hadn't been worried for Germania before. As children, he had found him annoying, then impressive and then he just liked him. Germania was always the one who could take care for himself and had enough capacity left over to take care of others, namely Rome. But now Germania looked as if he needed help and Rome was thrust into an unfamiliar role. Rome was an empire, he ruled and looked over smaller countries, but Germania had never been one to need protection. Would his proud friend even accept help?

He felt a big hand touch his forehead. Normally, he would have fought off the gesture and punched whoever dared to come close to him, but he felt too miserable to react with anything but a grunt. 

"You're burning up, my friend. Shall I fetch a healer?" Rome asked, a tinge of concern in his voice. He leant forward, awkwardly hovering over Germania. 

"Keep your quacks, they can't help me," Germania replied, feeling another stab of pain. 

"But what is it? What is ailing you? Mortal sickness does not touch us," at least not as far as Rome knew. 

"It is not a mortal plague, and your mortal doctors cannot help it," Germania said, stuttering on the end of the sentence, gritting his teeth. It felt like something was inside him, ripping him apart. 

"My friend."

He felt Rome's breath puff against his cheek, he must be much too close. Wearily, Germania cracked open eye and saw Rome's concerned gaze in his golden eyes.  
"I am worried."

Germania let out a sound that would have been a gruff laugh. "Worry does not become you."

"I wear triumph more handsomely, I know. How can I triumph over this sickness then?" Rome asked, glad that his friend was still capable of verbally sparring with him. He was too serious as an adult, always keeping things close to his chest. It wasn't as if Rome missed the juvenile teasing, except that he was. At their first meeting, Germania had mocked his swordsmanship and called him names. After Rome learned to respond in kind, they'd become friends. 

"Give it time, Rome. There's nothing you can do." It was typical of Germania, to stay silent and bear whatever pained him instead of seeking help. Rome had never known his friend to show weakness. 

Germania willed Rome to leave, but of course it didn't work. Instead, he lifted his hand from Germania's forehead and placed it onto his shoulder. Then, too quickly for Germania to react, Rome grabbed his knees with the other and stood up, lifting Germania into his arms. Germania protested, but Rome just walked over to the balcony. Never had Germania been carried before and he demanded to be let down, for Rome to stop. Rome didn't even seem phased by his weight – he was an empire, after all – and sat Germania down on the warm stone outside. Again ignoring Germania's questions (What are you playing at? What is this about?) he pushed on Germania's back to make him lean forward and slipped behind him, Rome's back against the stone wall and Germania's back to his chest. 

"I don't remember giving you permission to do this."

"I am the Great Roman Empire, I take permission,“ Rome replied. 

Germania felt the sun warming his body, a breeze and was loathe to admit that it had been a good idea. But he still didn't appreciate being carried and manhandled between Rome's legs. He could feel Rome's chest rising behind him with every breath. His eyes slipped close, trying to find a little bit of peace. 

A sharp pang of pain tore through his body and he flinched. Rome was alarmed, he could tell even without opening his eyes. Immediately he felt one of Rome's hand on his arm, the other settling on his shoulder.  
"What is wrong?"

"Tribal unrest, nothing more. It will pass as it always does."

Another lance of pain.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing. My tribes are not one nation united. They fight amongst themselves. They kill."

While he felt that he could never tell him, he was grateful for Rome's warm hands. Together with the sunlight, it made the whole issue seem easier to bear.

"You are at war?" Rome asked hesitatingly. 

"With myself, so to speak. Don't concern yourself, you cannot help. It will stop. One way or another."

Rome was silent, but he held Germania tightly.

"Do your tribes do this often?"

"We are a stubborn people, it happens."  
Inside he felt every death. 

Slowly, gently, Rome lifted his hands and placed them onto Germania's abdomen. 

“What are you doing?“ Germania demanded, a red furious blush on his face. Rome hummed a noncommittal answer then he lifted Germania's shirt and placed his hands on Germania's bare skin. Germania wanted to shout at him to take his hands off, but then he felt the warmth from Rome's big hands seep into his skin. The sound he made instead sounded more like a grateful sob, but Rome didn't comment on it. 

Gradually, Rome could feel Germania relaxing, pressed together as closely as they were. His left hand had been clutching Rome's clothes in a death grip until it merely rested on his leg. He leant his head against Rome's shoulder and something inside Rome seemed to swell up and pop. It was a culmination of years of emotions and a sudden realization. As Germania fell asleep, Rome became conscious of the enormous trust placed in him. Germania was never vulnerable. Never. And yet, he slept, with Rome's hands cradling his abdomen, sat between his legs, resting against his chest. He trusted Rome to protect him. Incredible. The temptation to join his friend in slumber was powerful, but he couldn't. He had made a promise - if silently - to watch over his friend, to take care of him. Something fluttered in his chest, like a bird trapped inside his ribs. Oh you gods.


End file.
